The white-capped, jagged peaks Catch the clouds and collect them, Draping them like scarves across their shoulders. The sun dances between floating puffs, Painting the canvas below with light and shadow.
It shocks my heart with joy each time, This ten thousand year old sculpture, Always new, never changing, This staging ground of life and death Against which every disaster obliterates itself. As the world remains whole.
This unshakeable frame of history Breathes into me its strength, I will fail often and fail at last, But in our failing, the world endures, Folding us into its story,
Its beauty and goodness echoes in my soul, The glory within resonating to the glory without, My joyful agreement, invitation, oneness With all that is good in the universe. I am an indispensable character in the eternal drama.
It has been a year since I last posted. My journey in the Pacific Northwest has been one of the most stressful of my life. Just to maintain a healthy connection to myself has been a struggle that I have often lost. On the one hand, I have had fairly long stretches of not feeling depressed, something I have not experienced for some years. On the other hand these times felt very tenuous. It did not give me the energy I needed to do any more than simply rest, and in the place of depression I have experienced much more anxiety than I have in the past… probably not new, just unrecognized until now as I become more attuned to its presence and role in my life.
Just realizing it is difficult enough without adding the next step of trying to resolve it in a healthy way. My anxieties circle tightly around the fear of coming short in fulfilling all the objectives in life that seem so pressing, so numerous, so overwhelming. In the past I tried to allay my fears by doubling down on my output, but more tasks always crowded into the space opened up by scratching off completed tasks. They were neverending. Doing more is a trap for me, not a resolution. I am not a machine whose worth is measured by what I accomplish. The only remedy is grace, learning to accept myself quite apart from my productivity. A deeply set pattern of 60 years is not easily broken. I share it here to encourage me further into this honest struggle.
Yesterday I texted Kimberly, “almost a perfect hike. 45 minutes of good cardio in the sun, a stroll along a beautiful mountain view, adventure on a new trail, and then overcast to be a perfect ambience for meditation.” Then I texted her this picture.
We get gorgeous views when it’s not cloudy, a rarity in the Pacific Northwest winters. And when the sunshine falls on my day off, even for a couple of hours, I consider myself lucky. I said it was an “almost” perfect hike because instead of being simply overcast, it rained the last 30 minutes down the mountain, which made me hurry to finish rather than calmly meditate. I finished texting Kimberly, “Near the end I laughed, thinking, Yeah God always has to add that little dose of ‘reality.’ Life never seems to come neatly gift-wrapped with a bow, but always manages to throw us off-kilter as though it fears we will settle down too easily into comfortable stagnation. There’s always something that doesn’t quite fit in the box, that leaves a sense of dis-ease challenging our neat organization of the world. Sometimes we flounder desperately trying to make sense of it all. Living genuinely is scary and confusing and painful, but it leaves us open to new directions we may never have considered. It’s a very messy affair wobbling courageously down a trail with no clear markings. Faith is given not so much to make us stalwart in our certainty, but to make us stalwart through our uncertainty.
I start out with the idea “I could do better” (in this case about counseling). I think of what possibly went wrong, and how I could “fix” it in the future. “I could do better” becomes “I must do better,” turning hope and potential into standards and judgments. The way to fix my sense of failure and self-criticism is to be sure I don’t repeat the mistakes I supposedly made and so escape future shame—forgiveness earned through perfection. This is a never-ending gerbil wheel.
Even though I might approach the issue as mere problem-solving and try to avoid self-criticism, the judgment hangs around the edges just waiting to pounce and drag me down. And the longer I dwell on ways to improve, the heavier it weighs on me. Driven by fear of repeating my failures, I come up with some good corrective plans and wish I had used those in what has already transpired. And then “I could do better” becomes “I should have done better.” After all, with just more reflection I figured out a better approach. Couldn’t I have done this before if I had just been more observant or reflective, more thorough and careful?
Of course, this self-judgment cripples me, gives me less freedom and flexibility, makes me defensive and self-protective, makes me fearful and insecure, and in the end I am less present, open, and vulnerable, more tired and distracted because the good is overwhelmed by my attacks on myself. My very desire to flourish becomes the knife that severs my flourishing.
Do-overs are packed with grace, but I often use them to beat myself with shame or obligation. “Why couldn’t I get it right the first time?” I demand, or, “I’ll work twice as hard to make up for lost time.” But grace invites me, without judgment, to try again… ironic given my Lenten goal of fasting from self-judgment. It was a great plan that was soon forgotten under the pressure of finishing my last semester and entering the job market in the middle of a pandemic-driven lock-down in which even church was closed.
So the Easter service was squeezed onto a computer screen between my Facebook browsing and covid-19 ferreting. Instead of a triumph over isolation and fear, Sunday seemed to invite me back to solitude and reflection, a second lent. And in that quiet, my soul whispered again of my need for gentleness towards myself. This was a step further than before, not just ending my self-condemnation, but offering myself kindness and consideration, kisses to my spirit.
This feels like my 2020 calling—being generous to myself and others. Inward and outward compassion is inextricable. In my experience, true self-compassion never competes with compassion for others, but rather empowers it, while harshness toward myself poisons my love for others. If I thrash myself for being late to work, I am angry with every driver who gets in my way. If I make room for my mistakes, I won’t offer sighing patience over Kimberly’s. Generosity is irresistibly expansive. Grace towards anyone, even yourself, breeds grace towards everyone. And when I fail, I get a do-over again and again, endless opportunities.
Tears stream from many different pools of emotion–some come from sadness, some from fear, others come from joy or gratitude. As a child, storms thrashed my emotions, but my tears were dammed up by the fear of being mocked as a cry-baby. My eyes were always dry, even as a seventh-grader when I was hit by a car and knocked thirty feet down a ravine, breaking my leg in three places. I calmly gave my home number to my friend Nathan, telling him to assure my family that I was okay, and then I asked the emergency responders if they wanted me to crawl up the embankment.
Crying as a boy was always contemptuous, with one religious exception: crying for one’s sinfulness was actually praiseworthy. So every kind of pain, suffering , and loss was funneled into this one acceptable ocean of sorrow. For the first half of my life, I cried from this bottomless lake of self-contempt–my failures to be courageous enough or careful enough or disciplined enough. My relationship with God was anchored by the depth of my own shame, expressed in tearful confessions. I loved God by hating myself. We had a very intense and very dysfunctional relationship.
When I stumbled into the truth that God accepts me unconditionally, this swamp of shame began to drain away. In God’s caring and affirming embrace, I slowly found the safety to acknowledge my own deep pain, especially from my religiously abusive self-reproach. Grace allowed me to recognize other pools of pain as well, the ache that comes from rejection, loss, loneliness, and other common human sources of suffering. The God that I thought belittled my pain and scolded my self-absorption actually cared that I hurt. My emerging theology of grace validated this view, but experiencing this care from others in my life let loose this new reservoir of tears, crying as an expression of pain, vulnerably exposing myself to the compassion of others.
The darkness of life often chokes me. Sometimes I respond to these feelings by distracting myself, I get on the internet or cook dinner. At other times I take a more healthy approach, try to resolve my struggle by reading something spiritual or journaling, but this often does not relieve my sense of confusion, fear, or isolation. I keep flipping through options, trying to find one that will soften the ache.
This morning I shared with Kimberly how badly I felt. Kimberly reminded me that my first response is to have compassion for where I am and how I am feeling. That whole concept is foggy in my mind–what does it mean to be self-compassionate? I’ve been making grabs at it for a year but it slips through my mental fingers. Somehow her words seemed to fall into place this morning, and the tears that began to trickle down my cheeks were not tears of pain, but tears of self-compassion for my pain. It is a new lake of emotions I have tapped into, and I am crying again as I type this. It is not a feeling of agony, but of soothing and care for my struggling soul, self-empathy.
Some years ago I stopped blaming myself for my own pain, but if instead I focus on “fixing” myself, treating my pain like a project, I objectify myself. Presence is the most important and first gift of compassion, even to myself, and it cannot be bypassed or shortened without harm, like a comforter who tries to “fix” someone whose spouse has died, “You need a dog! You need to move in with your son! You need to get out of the house and do something fun!” What they need is for me to sit and empathize with their suffering, to feel with them, to join them where they are with compassion. Grieving is an essential part of healing. And it takes as long as it takes.
My spirit opened up last week like a hiker breaking into a wide, sunlit meadow after a steep, shadowed ascent. Room to breathe, to get my bearings, to feel freedom from the hedged in trail. I was inspired by the kindness of an author I read and began imagining myself living from such a generous spirit. I journaled about my new inspiration to speak and live kindness into the world. As I read back to Kimberly those two pages, I felt the shadows swirling back in. The inspiration was sucked into the undertow of obligation. The joy of it turned into duty, a gauge to measure my adequacy.
What had seemed life-giving was now a tick on my to-do list, and I couldn’t restore the magic. Goading myself to be kind only deepens my legalism, and forced smiles are creepy, not uplifting. But spotting the problem did not deflate it as usual, so I had to shake off the shackles by backing away from this new prospect.
On Wednesday my therapist led me through an enlightening self-reflection: I was raised to believe that the task is more important than the person, that the one who shirks obligations is of little worth. When my worth is on the line, duty becomes a crushing weight. These were not conscious thoughts, but the underlying tint, the blue shade of light by which I see my world. My subconscious outlook shapes the way I feel about myself and God–in this case, I felt devalued. Tearfully realizing that, I embraced once again the God of grace, and the dark curtains shrouding my soul were pulled back.
But haven’t I known about this for a long time now? Why does it feel like a new revelation? As Kimberly and I drove to the mountains yesterday for a hike, I tried to focus the blur. After years of personal work, I no longer think my worth depends on fulfilling my duties. So God was not judging me, but he still needed me to complete the to-do list. That stuff mattered, mattered a lot, mattered more than me. His focus on the task devalued me as a person, one who is of great worth apart from anything I do. “Work before pleasure” was a core family value of ours. We took care of the work before we took care of ourselves because duty mattered more–studies over sleep, devotions over breakfast, clean-up before rest. Finish the task at all costs, then we have the right to consider our own needs and pleasures.
This turns truth upside down. A task has no worth except as it helps us–we are what matters, the object of God’s whole heart. We do not compete with tasks for his attention. When I think that God wants to use me for his purposes, seeing me as a means to his goal rather than seeing me as the goal, I lose sight of his love and objectify myself (something God would never do). Living under the weight of law ruins myself and the good I’m trying to do.
Then, instead of good work flowing from a deep rest in God and a discovery and joy in my gifting and beauty, I ignore my needs and belittle my worth, working against myself to fulfill a task that has now become not only meaningless, but damaging both to me and to the one I hope to bless. I do little good to others with my forced virtue, while I do serious harm by reinforcing belief in an uncaring God. Our impact on the world flows from our core beliefs, not from our carefully crafted behavior.
If my singular role is to spread God’s love as demonstrated in Christ, I can only do so by believing it for myself wholeheartedly. “This is the only work God wants from you: Believe in the one he has sent” (John 6:29). May I rest in that truth more each day.
I’ve been out of school for a month, leaning into rest and trying to forget the emotional crosswinds of this past school year that lashed my skiff. When the storm blew passed, I fell on the deck in relief. It took a couple of weeks to shake off the built-up stress, followed by two weeks of resisting a truck-load of “shoulds” that clamored to come on board. “Sorry, my boat’s not ready for that yet.” It has been surprisingly restful.
From childhood, duty was my slave-master, barking at me to meet its demands by sacrificing myself. With a harsh and uncaring voice, it claimed to speak for God, but if God cares more about a task than he cares about me, I’m lost. When that theology nearly killed me, I woke to a God who was full of unending love and grace. But shame and fear keep playing me, yelling about the dangers of self-compassion. When stress floods in, I easily fall back to the false safety I learned as a child–the salvation of self-discipline and hard work. From that view, grace only works as a reward for maximum effort: “God helps those who help themselves.” It is the American gospel.
As fall semester ramps up, I need to realign myself with the gospel of grace, but it is such a messy process. At what point is rest overdone, moving from restorative to deadening? If I push into the straits, will I get free or get stuck? Is it fear or love driving me, or a tangle of both? Can I ignore the fear or do I need to confront it? Reorienting from fear to love is slow and messy. I hate messy. It feels wrong.
Without clarity, how do I know which way to turn? Do I just set out and hope for the best? But that’s how I lose my way–get confused, and end up hurting myself and others–which proves I’m off track. Or does it? I stubbornly presume that a good heart leads straight to clarity and comfort. I keep forgetting that the way of love is rocky, that it uses uncertainty to grow faith and pain to grow blessing. To run from either is to short-circuit the divine process of grace. Uncertainty and pain are not the goal of love, but they are evidently the path to reach it in this broken world. “Now we see through a glass dimly.” Perhaps that should be my life verse.
I’ve had a week off from school now and the whirl has subsided. When school is in session, my life feels like it has direction and meaning, however short-term and contrived. In some ways getting another degree feels ridiculously arbitrary as a goal, like digging a hole in the ground and knocking a ball into it with a stick, becoming really good at stick-swinging, better than anyone else (though a hole-in-one actually benefits no one). Of course I hope I can be of benefit to others through counseling, and I hope it can keep us financially in the black even though I will be starting a new career at 60. At least counseling pays better and is more physically sustainable into old age than pitching 50 pound bags of mulch into people’s trucks at Home Depot.
When I’m no longer pressed by arbitrary class deadlines, the expansiveness that opens up blows emptiness into my soul. Why am I here? What meaning does my life have? How can I make a difference in a world that has sloughed me off like Teflon? Even wearing an orange apron and pointing at the wasp spray is a distraction from the hollowed out feeling of having no purpose but to somehow survive until death relieves me of that obligation.
Each day at work is measured in hours passing–to somehow fill the time until my first break, then slog 2 hours till lunch, then manage to stay busy enough till the afternoon break, which puts me close enough to the end of my shift to give faint hope of escape. That game of monotony is still better than sitting at home trying to make sense of the life I was handed like a bag full of small parts that come with no explanation or instructions.
It helps a little to talk about it, so thanks for listening.
Well, all my good intentions for Lent got squeezed out of my life by the bullies of work and school. They crowded out any extra room, leaving no time, energy, or emotional space to reflect and sit with healing thoughts. Kimberly’s work schedule and mine are not only constantly changing, but misaligned so that we only have time to connect at a basic level, but no time or energy to go deeper. I came home night before last and told Kimberly, “I HATE this school!” It is that time in the semester when everything is coming due and I have no extra time to complete the major projects. Perhaps when I have a semester break I will have a chance to paint from the Lent pallet.
Janathan Grace Reflections 